


break shot

by TheSpaceCoyote



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Animal Death, Averted Character Death, Blood and Violence, Fake Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Metafiction, Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:42:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29565585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSpaceCoyote/pseuds/TheSpaceCoyote
Summary: On the bridge of theSteadfast,staring down the barrel of Pryde's blaster, Hux's fate changes.
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Armitage Hux/Kylo Ren
Comments: 8
Kudos: 89





	break shot

**Author's Note:**

> Here is my entry for the Hux fanzine!
> 
> I wrote this back in May of last year so I'm very excited to share this. I really liked the concept of Hux having his other "lives" from other AUs/timelines flashing before his eyes as Pryde shoots him, so I hope what I was going for comes across. 
> 
> While all the "deaths" in this fic are hypothetical, I still tried to tag them, as they are technically real events happening in the narrative.
> 
> The Kylux is also purposefully subtle, but it is there in parts. 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!

The moment Pryde fires the blaster, time begins to stop. 

Still, Hux hasn’t a moment to react, to jump out of the bolt’s fatal path. He can only watch, stricken, hand not holding his cane rising in a futile attempt to defend himself. Indeed it seems inexorable, a foregone conclusion that the blaster will, eventually, find its way to Hux’s heart. It will snuff out the last flicker of his miserable life, rip the tatters of his dreams from his white-knuckled grasp, and send him spinning into darkness to remain forevermore. 

But as Hux’s eyes widen in fear, as his heart gears up to leap for the very last time, as the bolt creeps towards him, a perfect shot to scatter his soul to oblivion, something happens. 

Out of nowhere his awareness of the world around him—the bridge, the ship, the galaxy, everything— _breaks_ , actually breaks with strange distinct cracks of black static, as if it was a pane of protective glass shattered by the blaster, splintering into shards all around him. Hux’s reality itself suddenly feels destabilized by Pryde’s attempted execution, his conscious mind tottering in a cascade of visions of other lives that should be unfamiliar, but Hux knows intimately they are _his_. A hundred, _thousands_ of enigmatic trajectories, accidentally exposed to him as the blaster’s reflected beams drive them forward. Perhaps it’s an optical illusion, or a hallucination brought to life by the frightened synapses in his brain as it grapples with the inevitability of death. 

_Or maybe it’s the For_ —no. Not that. Never that. 

In any event, however it came to be, the strange map of visions reminds Hux of one of the games played in the officer’s recreation room, years ago, men and women of all ranks mingling together over a field of red baize set in a frame of deep black wood, harpooning lacquered cuesticks into brightly colored balls and sending them careening into corner pockets—only to be fed back into the game again and again and again, their individual paths always ending up bottomed out at the same fate, the same sort of sick cyclical cannibalism. And yet the randomness, the uncertainty, the balls that would defy the calls predicted by the players, it would intrigue Hux as he watched the games and listened to the banter of the other officers, never playing himself but infused with the hope that maybe, one day, one of those balls would bounce free of the constant erratic dance, escape the confines of the table and roll off, never to be seen again. 

Indeed, what if things could be different?

* * *

_“Five-ball, right corner pocket.”_

Armitage ascends the stairs in the old empty manor-house, clad in a clean tunic and freshly polished boots. Balanced in his hands he carries a serving tray laden with the fixings of afternoon tea: creamer, sugar, a small kettle of extra hot water. With a neutral expression, he reaches the top floor of the manor and crosses the landing to the master bedroom, rapping a warning knock on the door before slipping inside. 

“Come here, boy,” a hoarse voice rasps, out from the depths of the dim and musty room, furnishings illuminated by a couple of yellow light fixtures. Armitage, with practiced obedience, carries the tray over to the four-poster bed, careful to keep his steps even as to not to spill a single drop of the tea. A cleaning droid chirps at his feet, cutting a swath through the dust on the carpet otherwise marked only by the print of Armitage’s boots. 

There was once a time where the house was full of footsteps—those of servants and chefs, admirals and ambassadors, and even a few boys around Armitage’s age. But not anymore. Now, only two forgotten figures haunt its halls. 

“Here you are, father,” Armitage says, sure to keep his voice low. 

He draws aside the thick velvet curtains hemming in the bed. Brendol Hux is not a man to be trifled with and doesn’t tolerate insolence or loud noises from anyone, much less his son. This rule holds up, even now when Brendol lies deafened from age. Even with his eyesight fogged and leg lame from long illness, his hand still grasps the haft of his cane tightly, as if it was a lifeline, the one thing still holding him into the mortal world. Well; that, and the meager but heartening joy that comes with berating Armitage. 

“You took too long. It better not be cold. Cold tea is a miserable thing,” Brendol grunts, watching Armitage through watery, swollen eyes. Letting the scrutiny roll off his back, Armitage sets the tray gingerly on the bedside table, so quietly the fine ceramic saucer hardly even _clinks_ against the cup. 

“How would you like your tea today, father?”

Brendol grunts again, sounding even more sour than before, if that’s possible. 

“You know how I like it. I won’t waste breath repeating myself to you, whelp.”

Hux doesn’t smile at the treatment but doesn’t frown either, his face a neutral mask, expression hollow. With all the practiced placidity of a droid, he pours just the right amount of cream in his father’s tea—just enough to, in his father’s words, “change it to the milk-white flesh of a young Arkanis maid,” and stirs in three large rocks of Christophsian sugar. 

By the time Hux finishes preparing the tea, Brendol has managed to sit himself up in bed, belly bloated by cirrhosis beneath his nightshirt. He coughs, laying his cane across his lap before snatching the cup from Armitage’s hand. He squints as he takes a cautious slurp, as if half-expecting poison. 

But the idea of killing his father hasn’t passed through Armitage’s mind. Not in ages. All that he cared about now was keeping father happy.

Yet, even that was something Armitage could never hope to achieve. 

“You call this tea, whelp? This is _swill_. Vile, over-brewed swill!” Brendol splutters, tea dripping from his rubbery lips. “Why do I even keep you around? You can’t even make a _kriffing_ cup of tea properly!”

Before Armitage could react, even just to grovel or promise to fix the tea, the elaborate head of Brendol’s cane lashes across his temple, and he feels something _crack_. Warmth springs through the abrupt gash in his skin, the blow echoing in waves of agony through his skull. Suddenly dizzy, Hux loses his balance and falls, grappling for the coverlet of his father’s bed as he goes down. He chokes, throws up nothing from his stomach as nausea and a creeping chill takes hold. 

“ _Get up_...weakling,” is the last thing Hux hears before darkness completely overwhelms him. 

* * *

_“Two-ball, left center pocket.”_

“Enemy TIEs incoming! Man your stations!”

Armie’s head snaps up at the bellowed cry, tearing his eyes away from the X-wing circuitry he’d been fiddling with. He opens his mouth to call back, only for the horribly familiar sound of firing blasters to tear through anything he has to say. 

He throws himself to the ground as the fighters howl above him, the console he’d been working on bursting into a shower of sparks and debris. He scrambles for cover, heart in his throat, oil-slicked fingers clutching his trusty box-end wrench as if it could provide him any protection against the firepower of the advanced First Order fleet now spraying the camp.

“Taka!” Armie roars over the explosions and screeches of the TIEs, spying a familiar crown of dark-brown hair over an upturned pile of crates across the hangar. “ _Kriff_ _—_ Taka, where’s Commander Solo?”

“He took the Falcon, I think he’s planning to d-dogfight with the Jedikiller!” Armie hears Taka shriek, a moment before another salvo of TIE fire tears through the roof of the hangar, sending him flying through the air. He lands with a scream on a pile of debris, something sharp and thick ripping through his jumpsuit and into the joint of his elbow. He tries to sit up, to yank his arm free, but the twisted nature of the rebar keeps him trapped. He struggles, crying out for help, but no one hears him above the din of the raid. 

Armie flops back against the wreckage, breathing heavily, looking through the newly burnt holes in the hangar ceiling as red and green blaster fire shoots across the sky, the chaotic performance to his doomed spectator. Armie clenches his jaw, screaming in frustration through his teeth. Kriff. _Kriff!_ He wasn’t meant to die here! Not here, trapped in the burning wreckage of grounded fighters while the battle for the future of the galaxy raged outside. If he had to die, he wanted to die in a blaze of glory aboard Commander Solo’s ship, fighting for the Resistance, against tyranny, ‘til the bitter end. 

Armie’s eyes well up with tears as another TIE blows the last of the supports holding the hangar roof up, sending an avalanche of sparks and twisted metal raining down towards him. He closes his eyes and grits his teeth, only thinking of one thing. 

This isn’t _right._

* * *

_“Four-ball, left corner pocket.”_

Mr. Armitage Hux, esquire, sits primly at his desk, the afternoon sun coming through the window behind him, silhouetting his sleekly-styled hair and the sharp lines of his padded suit all in a pale orange glow. 

Straight-backed and oddly nonchalant for a Monday at the office, he scans the headline crowning the second page of the local paper he clutched in hand, taking a sip of coffee with a brow raised. Almost in amusement, though the average person would hardly find the headline much to laugh about. 

_RENOWNED LAWYER ARMITAGE HUX TO STAND TRIAL - ACCUSED OF CONSPIRACY IN CASE OF SOLO-ORGANA HEIR_

At least they had put “renowned,” Hux thinks with a grim smile, well aware that as the trial progresses even such cursory accolades would probably fade. There were people out there who had been wanting to see him fail for years—surely they would be the ones to take control of the narrative, to spin it against him, regardless of what evidence did or did not exist. 

Hux wishes, not for the first time, that he could represent his own case. Generally, not considered an intelligent move, but he trusts no one else in the entire city, the entire _country_ , to rise to his level. They would fail, they would leave him to rot in jail, stripped of all his dignity. 

Hux leans back into his chair with a leathery _creak_. He had already lost everything he’d built up over the past few years. His entire career, wrecked by unfortunate circumstances. But he could at least preserve his honor, so to speak. He would not be paraded about, form the epicenter of a media circus. He would not give them the satisfaction of witnessing his fall in slow motion. He would not allow them to savor it, to stretch him out inch by agonizing inch until the last of his pride snapped under the strain. 

At the very least, Hux knows they can no longer touch Solo—as long as he stays the course and realizes he can’t keep relying on other people to fix all his problems. There will be no one left to cover his ass any longer if he doesn't wise up. 

So with the newspaper article tucked into his front suit pocket, alongside the photo of his beloved Millicent he keeps in his wallet, and an antique penal rosary with the warm, finger-printed beads half-tucked into his shirt cuff, Hux walks from his desk to the stairwell to the rooftop and, after one final cigarette, into clear air. 

* * *

_“One-ball, side pocket, six-ball right corner. C’mon captain, watch me get both.”_

Outside the castle, the dark plains brim with torchlights. The air, usually quiet with nothing but the movement of trained guards and the distant calls of the nightbirds, instead filled with vicious war cries, chants for the surrender of the castle.

Lord Armitage Hux turns away from the window, too unsettled by the sights and sounds from the outside. Weeks of siege has worn heavily on the already frail noble, leaving him with the dark, tired eyes of a man thrice his age and skin so pale and waxen it seemed to glow, even in the low, wretched lighting of the master bedroom. 

The candles on the dresser illuminate little aside from the armor of Lord Hux’s most trusted knight, who kneels by the door, head bowed in shame or acceptance, cross-guard broadsword laid out on the carpet before him. 

“Sir Ren,” Hux orders, attention shifting to the crouched knight. “Lift your head.”

“My lord.” Ren does lift his head but does not meet Hux’s eyes, his hooded glance resting on the noble’s feet instead. “I do not deserve such titles. I have failed to protect you.”

Hux sighs. “In the face of such insurmountable odds, any failure can hardly be assigned to one man alone.” He crosses the carpet, resting his hand on Ren’s cheek. “You have accompanied me throughout the entirety of this nightmare. That is hardly a failure. You have stayed by my side, and you will see me through to the very end.”

At that, Sir Ren finally looks up, meeting Hux’s gaze. 

“The end, my Lord?” His knight’s voice quavers. 

“Yes.” Hux’s hand trails down the line of Sir Ren’s jaw until his fingers brush the tip of his bearded chin. “I would rather die by your blade than any of theirs. That is my last order as your master. Please.” He swallows, before continuing. “Do me this last kindness.”

Sir Ren stares up at Hux for a long moment, before taking the noble’s white-gloved hand and pressing the knuckles to his forehead. Ren’s other hand skims against the carpet, coming to rest on the hilt of his sword.

“As you wish, my lord,” he says, and Hux smiles, knowing the ever-loyal Ren will follow him soon after. 

* * *

_“Seven ball, right side pocket.”_

In the middle of the dark-green night, deep in the thick of the forest, a dog fox with fur that still shines reddish-gold despite the late hour streaks across a snare lying in wait beneath a carpet of damp leaves. 

The trap closes with a brutal, metallic _snap_ over the fox’s right hindleg, tearing through fur and flesh and clamping right over the brittle bone. The chain tethering the trap pulls taut as the fox’s momentum carries him forward, but it’s not enough to break the injured foot free and the fox falls to the ground in a cloud of wet leaves. 

Screams echo through the forest as the fox struggles about, natural elegance and grace reduced to a frenzied storm of orange fur and flecks of blood. The rusty teeth of the snare bite harder into his leg with each thrash, but fear and primal instinct have taken over, overwhelmed pain with the desperation to break free.

Yet there’s nothing to be done about it now. Man’s cruel trap has claimed its latest victim. As the fox weakens and lies dizzied on the lonely ground, it looks up to the carpet of stars beyond the tree and pleads, in a tangle of wild and unintelligible emotions, for peace to come to free him. 

By the time the dismal morning brings the hunter, all sweaty black hair and broad shoulders, to the site of the trap, the fox is already dead. 

* * *

_“Three-ball, left corner pocket. You’re going down, sir, ha ha!”_

He is Order. He has always been Order. 

He is the cosmic source of balance that holds both the light and the darkness at bay, keeps them from ruining one another, and running roughshod over the entirety of the galaxy. Those who seek shelter from violent, unpredictable forces pray to him, in hopes that he might save them. They give him names, paint images of him they find comforting, burn offerings in their homes to earn his blessing. 

He is everything that stands in the way of total disarray and desolation. 

But the order he holds so dearly, that sustains his very essence, will always fall to chaos. He has known, for a long time now, that which will be responsible for his death. What will cannibalize him, reduce him to raw parts to serve another power. It’s fate, written in the fabric of his being before he even came to life. 

It looms before him, his executioner—a black, amorphous mass, shot through with streaks of hellish red, already corrupting the golden boundaries of his essence. He doesn’t fight it. He can’t fight it. Chaos will always reign, will always unravel everything he’s sought to maintain within the fabric of the galaxy. He learned the truth long ago, became more than morbidly aware of his fate. That this presence, this essence, this representative of all that is dark and disordered and beautifully deathly, would come to take everything he is, everything he ever was. 

And so he relents. Gives into the insatiable entropy that craves his demise, and hopes for a quiet, merciful descent into oblivion. 

* * *

On the _Steadfast_ , time still stands still, holding Armitage Hux’s life suspended in the balance. The diverging paths of light fade, the shattered facets of existence falling, the numbered balls each sunk into their respective pocket. The blaster bolt is still coming, still floating along its inevitable trajectory, like the blow from a cane, like enemy fire, the edge of a rooftop, a sword, a snare, a hungry, unknowable entity, like the obstacles cutting through the lives of every mutable Hux, the only constant. Seemingly unavoidable, inescapable, all the ends of the strings of fate bound together in a lethal spool. 

Countless paths, each, it appears, ending in death. Ending in nothing. 

And so, he closes his eyes, and accepts it. 

The impact of the blaster bolt hurt like nothing else Hux had ever felt before. It knocked the breath from his lungs, sending him flying through the air. Hux landed hard on his back, pristine material of his uniform almost frictionless against the slick durasteel of the bridge floor. He slid a good distance, until even the tremendous force of the killing blow couldn’t push his body any farther.

But Armitage Hux was not dead. Not even as he lay, still as stone, on the ground, the place the arrogant General Pryde thought would surely be his grave. He was not dead when he felt the hands he knew belonged to a trusted few—Mitaka, Unamo, or perhaps even the fickle Trach, really any number of officers who distrusted the shift in command away from their beloved, reliable general—lifting him off the floor, pretending to treat him like refuse meant to be discarded. He was not dead when, in secret, those same hands divested him of his damaged but intact protective vest and slipped him into a tank of bacta, one constructed surreptitiously in case Pryde attempted some sort of violent treachery, which he was sure to do considering the plans of his _true_ master. 

Hux was not dead and was, in fact, brimming with new determination and ambition, as he jettisoned away from the _Steadfast,_ from Pryde, from Ren. Broken free with only a group of loyal defectors and a spare blaster to his name, like the final void-black ball snatched from the fatal pocket and escaped from the game at last, ready to continue to do what he had done all his life. 

Survive. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to read your comments if you have them! 
> 
> Hit me up on [Tumblr](http://thethespacecoyote.tumblr.com) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/heir_of_breath7/).


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